


Everyone's Favourite Kebab (Or, Pallas Is Very Dead)

by RuthlessNancy



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flirting, Fluff, Food, Kebab Shop AU, M/M, References to The Aeneid, except they're eating kebabs, its the same concept as, not a tag apparently, references to sappho, the speedrun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuthlessNancy/pseuds/RuthlessNancy
Summary: Alex usually bullies Nora into taking Henry's orders with the threat of pushing him into a tub of shredded lettuce.Yet today, Alex almost feels guilty at the thought of antagonising him.In which Henry is a uni student and Alex works in the kebab shop, and the author uses far too many references to classical lit.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 75





	Everyone's Favourite Kebab (Or, Pallas Is Very Dead)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jenniferdelacroix_pifflingfm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenniferdelacroix_pifflingfm/gifts).



> Thanks to Juno for editing xx

The bell rings as someone walks through the door. Alex turns around to say something generically friendly, but the words die on his lips when he actually recognises the customer.

It's Henry. And he looks terrible.

Henry Fox has been visiting Holleran's Kebabs for almost a year now, usually carrying at least two dictionaries and an aggressively annotated translation. Alex isn't ashamed to admit that he enjoys watching him work, gaze catching on the intense furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrates and the ink staining his fingers. He also isn't ashamed to admit that actually talking to Henry is the single most infuriating experience of his life. He turns ordering a meal into a whole Event; if he doesn’t have the time to spend twenty minutes sniping across the counter, Alex usually bullies Nora into taking his orders with the threat of a Physical Altercation involving pushing Henry into a tub of shredded lettuce.

Has he done it yet? No. Nethertheless, it remains one of Alex's favourite daydreams.

Yet today, Alex almost feels guilty at the thought of antagonising him. The bags under his eyes are roughly the same size as that stupid leather satchel he carries everywhere like an entitled Edwardian schoolboy, and his face is drawn and pale. His expression is abjectly defeated, and he doesn’t even bother to glare at Alex when he walks in.

Alex feels slighted. He also feels mildly concerned.

There’s no Nora in to pass him off to, so Alex is treated to a complete introduction to Henry Fox: Definite Pod Person. Henry makes his order politely, quietly, and without ever once making eye contact. He gives Alex an absent smile, and it’s at about this point that Alex starts to worry for the other guy’s health.

He finishes this charade of a business transaction by sitting on one of the rickety stools next to the counter, rather than going over to the wall to lounge indolently and stare at Alex making up the kebab, and Alex finally snaps. “Is there something wrong with you?”   
  
That, at least, gets a response. King of Diplomacy, Alex Claremont-Diaz (or maybe President of Diplomacy, seeing how the monarchy is a corrupt and pointless institution hanging onto the glory days of rampant imperialism).

“No,” Henry scowls, and then he goes back to looking miserable. It’s really bumming Alex out.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’m just saying, you look like someone horribly murdered your puppy and then resurrected it’s corpse to run you over with a lorry.”

“David is fine, thanks.” And oh look, he actually does have a puppy. Score 1 for Alex’s intuition.

“Then why the…” he gestures vaguely, “face?” There’s nothing wrong with Henry’s face. Despite the tiredness, he’s still remarkably attractive, like the Romantic Ideal of a consumptive playboy. It’s unfair.

“My flatmate’s been keeping me up all night, and then I’ve had 8am classes.” He punctuates the sentence with a yawn, all bleary eyed and vulnerable. Alex elects to ignore that, uncomfortable seeing his least favourite customer without the usual prickly aura. “He’s doing a presentation on food in Ancient Rome, and being Pez, he has to go all out; we were making currant buns in the shape of mice at 4am.”

He groans, and lets his head thump onto the counter in front of him. “And I didn’t even get to eat any.”

“Unjust,” Alex pronounces firmly. “You helped to make them; the least he could have done-”

“It’s not Pez’s fault,” Henry interrupts. His voice is muffled against the countertop. “We were so busy panicking over finding enough tupperware that I forgot to grab one.”

There isn’t much to say there, so Alex stays quiet and concentrates on cutting off kebab meat without an Incident.

“And the worst part is, all I could think about in class was food.”   
  
The mood of the century.

”We were looking at funerals in classical literature,” slightly less relatable, “and today it was Pallas in the Aeneid.”   
  
This makes absolutely no difference to Alex, but he is intrigued as to how this connects back to the current (currant? HA) topic.

Henry sighs and raises his head from the counter. That's probably a good thing; Alex is fairly certain there are laws regarding hair and serving food, even if the hair in question is as gorgeous as Henry's. 

No, he doesn't have a crush. Shut up. It's a healthy appreciation.

“This poor kid is violently impaled, and while they all monologue about how it’s tragic, and horrible, and he will be missed, all I could think about… was kebabs.”

He regards him bluntly. "You are a terrible person."

Henry pulls a face, but he doesn't deny it.

A few seconds into the weirdly comfortable silence, Alex plonks the styrofoam container of kebab etc. down, and Henry digs in like a starving man, clearly haunted by the memory of those currant mice. Alex rolls up his shirt sleeves, grabs a dishcloth and begins wiping down every surface in the building, perhaps more industriously than necessary. Still, it can’t hurt, and he doesn’t want to look useless in front of Henry (he does not want to address what this might say about him.).

"What are you supposed to be studying?” He asks, two tables in. “Other than the development of the kebab from an early Roman murder to your favourite lunch."

Henry slides a book along the counter to him, mouth still full. He's polite like that.

"Histories, huh?" Alex flicks through it. It's a fairly thick book, weight made up as much by appendices and introductions as the actual text. The margins are full of cramped biro, 

Henry nods. He swallows quickly and sets his fork carefully in the lid of the container. “I’m looking at the way history as a subject developed from an artform into an academic discipline. For example, one of the Nine Muses - they’re responsible for the Arts - was Kleio, who was associated with history, but nowadays most people don’t think of a young woman playing guitar when they think of history.”   
  
“Nine Muses?” Alex asks. It seems a strange thing to say; Henry’s shirt parodies the self-titled Muse album, with the fragmented face replaced by that of an oddly familiar woman lost in thought, and the text reading  _ The Tenth Muse _ . He thinks June might have a badge of the same face.

Henry sees him looking. “Oh!” He grins. “That’s Sappho. She wasn’t really a Muse, it was just an honorific because she was that good of a poet.”   
  


The name definitely rings a bell, but apparently Henry isn’t content with mere recognition, because he spins around on the stool to face Alex and launches into a rendition of a poem:

“ _ I loved you once, years ago, Atthis, _

_ When your flower was in place. _

_ You seemed a gawky girl then, artless _

_ Without grace. _

_ Atthis, you looked at what I was _

_ And hated what you saw _

_ And now, all in a flutter, chase _

_ After Andromeda.” _

There’s something mesmerising about the way he speaks, the earnestness of his recitation blurring with the emotion of the text, and Alex can’t take his eyes off of him. He thinks about Henry choosing to memorise this specific poem, and he wonders why. A part of him begins to wonder why he chose to recite a love poem to Alex of all people, in the middle of a deserted kebab shop, but he quashes it down ruthlessly. He’s just attempting conversation. There is nothing inherently romantic about reciting gay love poetry to your longterm nemesis, alone but for the low murmur of the radio in the corner.

Then Henry says, “She’s my second favourite gay icon,” and winks at him, and all Alex’s carefully constructed internal arguments fall apart in an instance.

“Who’s your first?” He asks, then immediately curses his decision to speak, and his initial worry over Henry’s ridiculous problems, and his choice to speak to him in the first place, having been bowled over by deceptively good looks, and so on and so forth, until he’s regretting that his mother ever met his father in the first place.

“Myself, of course,” Henry says, oblivious to Alex’s inner turmoil. Ugh. He’s terrible. Alex can’t believe he’s going to kiss him.

“I like the confidence.” And the strange thing is, he does. “Where would I fit in on the gay leaderboard?”   
  
Henry’s eyes pass over him assessingly, kebab forgotten. Alex returns Henry’s look challengingly, feeling oddly exposed. The tension always crackling between them reaches a new intensity, finally sparking over when Henry says, “Why don’t you come over here and let me find out?”

  
Alex puts down both book and dishcloth, and strides forward. Standing between his legs, he’s so close Henry is forced to look up at him, squinting through golden eyelashes. There’s the faintest flush of red on his cheeks, and as Alex watches his lips part in anticipation, throat bobbing with uncharacteristic nervousness. He puts one hand on Henry’s shoulder, leans forward and-

-nicks one of the ever present biros from Henry’s breast pocket before he has the chance to protest. He scrawls his number into a napkin, wraps it around the pen, and tucks it back into the pocket.

Alex steps back, smirking at the obvious disappointment on Henry’s face. “You have kebab breath,” he explains. “I’m not kissing you now.”

Henry’s face scrunches up in agreement then, hopefully, he asks “Now?”

“Yeah.” Looks like those literature lessons aren’t completely wasted; the man can at least work out the meaning of a time signifier. “My shift ends at five, I can meet you then.”   
  
Henry smiles, and it’s like the sun has risen in his eyes, all earlier traces of exhaustion vanishing. “I’ll see you then.” 

When they do kiss, Henry doesn’t taste at all like kebab.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday present for one of my favourite people ever, who I love very much and think deserves the world, who has the best sense of humour and impeccable taste in absolutely everything, who is the Cornelia to my Flavia and no doubt has noticed this terrible attempt at a positive tricolon from comma placement alone.  
> Henry and Alex would end this with a quote from a queer icon, so here's Tamsyn Muir: "it's for you. Go nuts."


End file.
